Creature Speak


A Creative Writing Blog

The Hawk of New Dawn

Sometimes I want to be left alone in the morning.  Just my moments of peace without texts and DM’s or hearing my phone ring.  The chance to find myself with my elixir in hand before the demands flood me.  

Cause we all know what’s coming.  Soon I’ll be running from the cage and  jumping through obstacles for the circus master.  And all I’ll hear is the laughter of children going mad deep within the chests of everyone I see.  And they won’t see me, just a number, a unit, or a  cause to be tired:

One more paper on the pile they have to file before they can go home.  And they just want to be left alone, too, because they forgot that blood isn’t blue, it’s just a trick of the light.  And sometimes we need to close our eyes to see colors for real.  

We need time to connect in the flesh and feel our own hearts.  But Culture’s voice says it’s too hard to break away and drop in.  And if your body is a sin then it’s not a good indication of whether you need a vacation or resignation from institutions perpetrating illusions that wear us down like melting gold for the Good King’s crown.

Are we merely commodities for royalty?  Are we but the diamonds for their broaches?  What if we are not the territory for encroachment?

What if my body is a barometer when there’s poison in the air and in the soil, and my spirit is a sensor when there’s a crisis of the soul?  And if there’s a disaster on a global scale, it’s what happens when it’s not safe to exhale and let out the blight because toxins are the only thing around and they put up a fight.

And what if I’m a divine vessel for one who learns how to use it, but one must pay attention in the lesson or lose it?  I’ll be long gone by then… And I won’t come back when they’re finally ready.  Because castles built on graveyards can never be steady enough to last when ghosts tend to remember the past.

When forests disappear and lush lands become deserts; mirages suffice for the Heaven on Earth some of us came to make.  Who knows what materials will be left to build with in the aftermath of greed for the elite’s sake?

When the people disconnect and forget how to create, nothing makes sense anymore.  We forget we need human touch and engagement to feel love and know what we’re living for.

The forgetting is a sure bet for people in power to have the resources to build their ruby towers on the bones of visionaries with the blood of canaries in excavation caves full of carved coal idols.  Symbols at the helm of carriages and thrones laced with the holiest gemstones to declare their domain of control with the property they own.

But what if I’m a hawk with the eyes of an eagle, and I can see from great heights in startling detail?  Some raptor birds fly alone to have enough room for their wingspan.   And it’s easier to avoid the weapons of man soaring solo and out of sight.

And it’s a good thing man can’t fly, though he tries, or all the scouts and guardians would be dead.  That’s where we’re headed, killing all competing predators so the docile overrun the land, depleting resources on behalf of man.  

That way man can rise to rule the world of concrete and asphalt, ignoring the salt left on the earth from dried up sacred springs that stings our eyes when we trip and fall in the dirt.  

And I’ll be with distant mountains somewhere, circling peaks and waiting for quiet to come to the ground.  Then maybe it will be safe to swoop down and listen to the humans who are reclaiming their vision with hearts open and bodies fully alive.  

For this is the chariot of the soul to ride: to draw forth the cosmos once more that life on Earth be restored.  The dream that was buried but always to burn in our hearts for Love’s ultimate return.

Copyright © Sheyorah Naify, 2019
Art: Electric Peak with Hawk by Paul Krapf.

Author’s Note: This is another socio-political spoken word poem. It is meant for reading aloud but I didn’t have the energy for that. Hopefully it makes sense nonetheless and some of the nuances of rhythm and rhyme still come through. Thank you for putting up with my lengthy verbosity.

About Me

I wrote my first story when I was a wee girl of three, followed by my first poem when I was eight. I’ve been writing ever since as a way to cope with life. This practice evolved with learning in both structured settings and through the practice, itself. In my own healing crisis, I found a process I affectionately refer to as Poetic Alchemy. Now on the journey of getting my life back, I do this not only for myself but for you.

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